Mus Maximus
by Ophium
Summary: So, why exactly does Dean dislikes rats so much? Story set both in the beginning of season 1 and in 1985. Some swearing and possibly disturbing imagery. Complete.


As always, a huge thank you goes to Jackfan2, my beta and all around awesome friend, who not only keeps my English readable, but also manages to add absolute pearls to each story. Thank you! Any remaining mistakes are there because I'm _that_ persistent.

**MUS MAXIMUS**

Now

For as long as he could remember, there was this one odd thing that Dean always did the moment they opened the door to every new motel room. No matter how long the drive, no matter how late the arrival, no matter how exhausted he was, it was this… habit that Dean had and that Sam never really understood.

Well, to be honest, there were a lot of things that Dean did that often escaped Sam's concepts of either normal or even proper, but a couple... a couple were weird enough for him to stuff under '_freaky stuff that Dean does and I'm way better off if I never find out why'_.

As it was, Sam had grown accustomed to watching his older brother check all of the room's cupboards and cabinets as soon as their bags were inside and the door locked. The salt on the door and windows, that he understood... the weird opening and closing of the furniture? Sam didn't have a clue.

As a boy, back when Sam still believed in Santa, he'd figured that Dean was looking for hidden treasures. More often than not, people left stuff behind when they cleared out of motel rooms, either because they'd forgotten or because they no longer cared. More often than not, the places where they stayed in were stinky enough that no one bothered to clean them up in between guests.

Dean's first Walkman, for example, had been a scrapped and chipped thing that barely worked properly; they'd discovered it in the back of a bedside table, back in some motel that neither of them could now remember.

It was like a game, with really cool prizes at the end, and for a couple of years Sam thought it was fun to join his big brother in his scavenger hunts.

It took Sam a while to realize that it wasn't the small treasures that they occasionally found that interested Dean. In fact, he seemed to be happier when they found nothing at all.

The Christmas after he found out exactly what his father did for a living, Sam's theory shifted from treasure hunt to monster checking. He found it a bit odd that Dean would search for monsters in the kitchen, but at least it made more sense as to why Dean would sigh in relief whenever his search came up empty.

After he'd left for college, the strange behavior had been out of Sam's mind for years. It was one of those peculiar quirks that only drew attention as long as they were in your face. So, out of sight, out of heart and for four years, Sam's mind was occupied with more normal things, like Sociology classes, and Latin classes, and Civil Rights classes, and working small jobs to pay for his bills and Jess...

Until Dean showed up at Stanford and pulled Sam back into a life of hunting evil and risking your life fighting things that other people didn't even know existed. Back into a life of spending their whole time living in each other's pockets.

It was true; the more things changed the more they stayed the same. All of Dean's quirks were still there, with a couple of new additions he'd managed to compound to his repertoire during Sam's absence.

Dean slept with a knife under his pillow now, something that Sam found profoundly disturbing and, honestly, unsafe. Also, the clothes, _GOODGOD_ the clothes! Sure, spotless cleanliness and Dean had never been close relations, but Sam found that the amount of smelly clothes that he left all over –as well as the strength of the stench itself– had increased exponentially. Then, there was his annoying habit of using the last of the toothpaste and not saying a word it, not to mention the occasional cigarette that Dean thought he was inconspicuous about, but that was obvious in his breath whenever he caved in to the addiction behind Sam's back.

And Dean still checked every closed cabinet in the low rated motel rooms they stayed in, like ghosts and demons were stored right next to the chipped dishes and mugs that came along with most kitchenettes.

Now, with a couple of college classes under his belt, Sam knew enough to give a name to what Dean was doing.

Compulsion.

Like people repetitively checking the stove before leaving home, or always putting on the right sock before the left, or washing their hands repetitively.

It was pointless, it was annoying and it was something that Dean could not control.

The motel owner of the place they were staying in this time around had a thing for velvet. It was everywhere.

The carpets on the floor, of a puke-green shade, had a velvety feeling to them; the paintings on the walls, depicturing generic landscapes of green pastures and blue skies, were made of colorful, velvet collages... there was even a yellow velvet toilet-cover that Dean had declared evil right there and then.

The dust gathered in all that fabric hanging around and decorating the place had sent both brothers into a fit of sneezes the minute they'd walked in.

Sam sent a pissed look at his brother as soon as he regained motor control of face. It had been Dean's idea to stop there, after all.

Dean just smirked, wiped his nose in the sleeve of his blue jacket and dumped his duffel in the bed closest to the door. "Like a dream come true, ain't it Samantha?"

Sam ignored him and stomped to the bathroom.

They were exhausted, fresh out of hunting a Bearwalker across the woods outside Wichita. It didn't help that Sam could barely sleep a night through, plagued by dreams of Jessica burning in the ceiling above his head and screaming himself awake every other day. The screaming part wasn't doing wonders for Dean's rest either.

They were both strung out, weary, with their tempers on the edge and just about ready to throw in the towel.

When Sam came out of the bathroom, chin still dripping water from the handfuls he'd splashed over his face, Dean was in the small kitchenette of the room. Checking the cupboards.

"You do realized that's a disease, right?" Sam asked, hip leaning against the kitchen's island separating the eating-space from the sleeping-space. Dean's back tense at his words, but otherwise ignored him. "People with OCD can usually control their compulsions when they're made aware of them... you should try."

"Really?" Dean asked as he closed the last of the gaudy, yellow painted cabinet doors. Turning, he fixed Sam with a pissed gaze and crossed his arms. "'Cause I got this _compulsion_ to break your face right now, for that crap-assed comment and so far, you're not bleeding. So, from where I'm standing, college boy, I don't think my control is the issue here. Your mouth, on the other hand..."

Sam's eyebrows met over his nose and his eyes squinted. He looked like he'd just smelled something really nasty. "Have it your way, then," he said, before turning his back and flopping down on his bed, TV's remote control in his possession as retaliation.

He could still hear his brother rummaging around in the small kitchen, before finally moving into the bathroom and closing the door. Soon after, there was an insipid sound of lousy-pressure water splashing against tiles and shower curtains being pulled.

The thing with the closets always got worse when Dean was tired, Sam was sure of that. And what really bugged him was that he knew that, more often then not, compulsions were born out of trauma. But no matter how hard he tried, Sam could not come up with a single event that could possibly justify Dean's actions.

The loud cursing, coming from the bathroom, drew Sam's attention away from his rambling thoughts. Jumping to his feet, Sam was at the closed door in two strides, hand poised on the handle, trying to figure out how bad it would be to just barge in there.

"Dean? You okay?"

More cursing answered him, followed by the ominous cocking of a gun.

With his stomach doing two Olympic-worth somersaults and a straight jump to his throat, Sam wasted no more time and opened the door.

Pale and shaken, Dean was pressed against the wall next to the door, one hand clenching the towel around his waist, the other pointing his marble-handled gun at something somewhere in the toilet's vicinity.

Before Sam could ask what the hell was going on, he saw it. Long, pink tail, dragging across the velvet carpet; grey fur that rippled every time the thing moved and small, reddish-black eyes that skittered nervously from side to side. The rat was watching them as intensely as they were watching him.

Sam kept on looking. If Dean was still pointing his cocked gun, looking tense and ready to kill something, surely there must be something else in there other than a big rat.

The gun's muzzle, however, was following the animal's movements across the bathroom; Dean's eyes trained on the grey ugly thing like it might suddenly grow wings and fly out of there.

It slowly dawned on Sam that Dean was, in fact, ready to shoot that rat dead.

"Come on, Dean... it's just a big mouse," Sam finally said, his heart slowly descending back to its rightful place as he realized that there was no danger. "Don't you think you're over-reacting a little bit too much?"

Dean sent him a look that he usually reserved for cannibals and people who liked to listen to Enya.

"The frigging thing was just _there_, staring at me, when I got out of the shower," Dean explained, making it sound like the most offensive thing that anyone had done to him ever since the invention of boys' bands.

Sam snorted as he shrugged his shoulders theatrically. "Maybe it's a female rat," he offered, his voice teasingly sweet. "Or a male rat who likes... you know... to look at people in the shower."

Dean was about to show his brother just how much he appreciated Sam's standup comedy number, when the rat, sensing a distraction in the room, figured it was high time to make a break for the door.

The damn thing moved way too fast for its short legs and, before Dean could react, the rat had darted straight at his naked feet, the only thing standing between the trapped animal and freedom.

The undignified squeak that left Dean's mouth, as soon as he felt the rodent's tiny paws touch his foot, would've been a priceless source of endless teasing for Sam, if he hadn't seen the way Dean's face lost all of its color and the sweat that broke all over his skin.

For one frightening moment, Sam was sure that Dean would shoot his own foot, just to rid of the feeling of rat's touch off of him.

"Dean," Sam said very quietly. Every move was slow and his voice calm to keep from startling his brother any further. "Let go of the gun."

Dean obeyed with little resistance, his grip lax as he surrendered his gun to Sam's insistent fingers, and sagged against the wall. His chest felt tight and no matter how much air he tried to suck in, none seemed to be reaching his lungs.

The rat, impervious to all the drama left in his wake, was long gone.

Sam led his brother back to his bed. Dean was shaking all over, one step away from hyperventilation. And all because of a rat?

Sam knew that Dean wasn't all that fond of the furry beasts, but then again, there weren't that many people who liked to pet sewer rats.

When Sam was twelve, he had gotten himself a pet mouse. It looked nothing like that disgusting thing. Cheesepuffs was white hamster, with long, soft whiskers and one deformed hind foot.

Carefully hidden inside Sam's pocket for most of the time, it took John Winchester a little more than two days to realize that he had one more passenger in the Impala.

When his father had seen the little rodent's head peeking from Sam's pocket, he'd thrown a fit, telling him in no uncertain terms that the thing was to be gone by the time Dean returned.

Sam loved Cheesepuffs and was certain that Dean wouldn't really mind the presence of such a small animal. After all, Dean had kept a pet roach inside a matchbox for months before he grew tired of it.

Cheesepuffs was Sam's pet and he should be allowed to keep it, but John wouldn't hear any of his reasoning.

By the time they went to pick up Dean at some hunter's place, where he'd been staying for two weeks, to was learn some tracking and hunting stuff, Cheesepuffs had mysteriously gone missing.

In Sam's mind, he'd always known that his dad had done something terrible to his pet and that Dean's usual over-reaction to the little furry animals was to blame for that particular crime.

"Okay," Dean said, breathing finally under control and already rooting around his bag. His hand came out with a clean shirt and some boxer shorts. Even as he put the clothes on, Dean's eyes darted all over the room, like he was still looking for that rat. "Pack your things... we're out of this shit-hole!"

Sam blinked. "You can't be serious... we just got here!"

Dean paused, fingers poised over the button of his jeans, and looked at Sam.

There were times when Sam knew he could argue with his brother, like when they were trying to figure out where to go next, or which take-out to order, which waitress was hotter.

There were times when it was pointless to even try, like when they were talking about their dad, or mom or whenever Dean got that look in his eyes.

It didn't happen often, but whenever it did, that look never failed to shake Sam right down to his core. He couldn't quite describe it, but it was something in between fierce determination and such fragility that the only thing that came to Sam's mind was the image of a crystal surface, on the brink of shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.

It was a look that made Sam's guts twist and shrivel.

It was a look that made him pack his bags less than one hour after checking in to that motel.

olo

"You wanna tell me what this is all about?" Sam finally asked, when they were back on the road.

Dean had seemed to relax somewhat as soon as he was behind the wheel, but from the speed he was pressing on the Impala, it didn't look like he had plans of stopping any time soon.

Dean gave his younger brother a sideways look; a fleeting glance meant to judge how hard Sam was going to press this matter. The determination he found there did not bode well.

"What do you mean '_what's it about'_? There were _rats_ in that frigging room... we weren't gonna stay there," Dean volunteered, his tone of voice suggesting just how obvious that should be for Sam.

"We could've asked for another room... but that's not what I was asking about," Sam said.

In the dark of the night, with nothing but the headlights of the car lighting the black road ahead, it was easy to imagine that they were alone in the world and that nothing existed beyond that car.

It was easy to imagine that whatever they whispered within its confines would stay hidden from the world, falling in to oblivion in the open space of the seat between the two of them. Like a moving confessional of sorts, one where they could confess their sins to themselves.

"You freaked out at that rat, Dean," Sam went on, his voice soft and un-intrusive. A priest, pulling a confession out of a reluctant sinner. "I've seen you fight a rawhead with a smile on your face and you lost your control over a common rodent? I don't buy that."

olo

Dean wasn't sure if it was the tone of voice that Sam was using, the one that never failed to remind him of a six year old boy asking why their family was so different from the others at school, or if it was some deep seeded desire to justify his reactions and not have his kid brother thinking he was a wuss. He just knew that the tone worked better than a corkscrew, twisting and twirling the tight lid he kept pressed over his emotions.

Dean hated rats. And little of it had to do with them being disease-carriers with tiny paws that moved too fast and liked to breed in their own filth.

Dean just couldn't stand the sight of them, he couldn't bear hearing their tiny screeches and he found the idea of even touching one, repellent.

And deep down, Dean knew that he was afraid of them. It wasn't rational; it wasn't something that he could think through and tell himself that it was nothing but a silly fear. If anything, rats should be afraid of him.

Which was why it pissed him off to no end that he was back on the road, being drilled with questions from his brother, and the frigging rat was back in their room, probably rolling on its back, laughing its creepy ass off.

Dean cleared his throat. Come to think of it, it wasn't such a big deal to tell Sam about it. It was just one more item in the long list of things that made their childhood different from most. It wasn't bad. It certainly wasn't good. It was just... theirs.

"There is a limit to how many firearms you can buy without calling attention to yourself and being flagged by the authorities as either a terrorist or a nut-case." Dean didn't look at Sam, only gripped the wheel tighter, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "A couple of months into starting as a hunter, dad had already maxed out on the his legal gun purchase limit. So, he called up some old Marine contacts he still had and set out to buy a couple more weapons, outside of the law."

Dean could feel his brother shift beside him, ready to open his mouth as ask what did that had to do with anything. Knowing that the minute Sam started with more questions, he wouldn't be able to press on, Dean steamed over Sam's curiosity before he could even utter a sound.

"The neighborhood wasn't exactly what you might call 'kiddy-friendly', but it was close enough to where the meeting was taking place. There was no way dad was going to take us with him to a weapons dealer, so he wanted a motel close enough that he didn't have to worry about leaving us alone for a couple of hours..."

olo

Oregon, February of 1985

Dean didn't like that place. It smelled funny.

Ever since they'd left home, since they'd left mommy behind, they had stayed in a lot of different places.

There had been a couple that he had kind of liked, like the one with the room with the plastic cow's head sticking out of the wall; or the one with the slides and the pool outside; or even the one that had that cool bed that shook all over when dad threw coins in a box. That one had been awesome, especially when dad had let him fall asleep while the bed moved. It was like falling asleep inside a blender.

This one had a normal bed, but it stunk of old lady and farts. In fact, the whole room smelled of fart, like the walls were giant butt cheeks that kept leaking stuff out. Dean hated it and he was pretty sure Sammy wasn't all that fond of it either.

Dad had already opened all the windows, hoping to let some of the stink out, but it wasn't working all that well. There was a dumpster right in front of their window, and that didn't smell any better than the room.

"It's just for a couple of hours, kiddo," dad said, giving up on the stench and picking up his duffel to start 'making the room safe'.

Dean couldn't quite understand how pouring salt across the windows and door, and scratching symbols on the entrance made a place any safer, but the fact remained that nothing bad had come to get them as soon as dad start doing that. When the evil thing had come to hurt mom, back at their other home, there had been no salt on the windows.

"Go give your brother his bath, will ya," dad asked, as he finished his dealings around the room.

Dean beamed and nodded empathically. He was Sammy's big brother, which meant that he had responsibilities. He was big enough to take care of his little brother.

The almost two-year-old Sam was on the grey couch where dad had set him up when they had got there. Chubby arms stuffed with clothes, waved around frantically, hoping to draw the attention of anyone in the room. Only the unfamiliar surroundings were stopping him from rolling over and explore the dirty floor on his own.

Dean grabbed Sammy under his arms and 'walked' him to the bathroom. The toddler giggled madly, fascinated by the movement of his blue sneaker-clad feet, barely touching the carpeted floor and 'walking' faster than he could ever manage on his own.

"Faster, Dee! Faster!" Sammy screeched excitedly, pushing forward with his whole body, trying to drag a slower Dean, who had stopped to collect the duffel with Sam's bath things.

Dean loved giving Sammy his bath. Whenever dad took them to the store to pick up stuff, Dean always made sure that he grabbed the same shampoo and baby soap that mom used to use. He couldn't really read the labels all that well, but Dean knew the honey smelling stuff came in packages of bright yellow with a smiling bee and that the strawberries bubbles had a blue eyed baby on the front.

Sammy would entertain himself splashing water all over and making little choo!choo! noises (even though Dean had already explained to him that trains didn't run on water), while Dean spread the strawberries bubbles in the water and washed Sammy's hair carefully, one hand on the forehead to keep the foam from sliding forward, just like dad had taught him. And while his small fingers worked the familiar patterns of washing and rising, Dean could close his eyes and pretend his mom was there, standing right beside him, humming softly like she always did when she was giving him or Sammy a bath.

Dean opened the bathroom door, the nearness of the prospect of filling the tiny room with smells that reminded him of home making him smile already.

The smile, however, was quickly replaced by a terrified scream, a fright so sudden and paralyzing that Dean almost dropped his baby brother.

There was a huge rat on the bathtub, sharp teeth bared and thick tail coiled around it's black body, looking like it might attack anyone who dared to come into its territory.

olo

John was by the door in seconds, the terrified scream of his older son making him drop everything and move faster than light. The terrible thoughts inside his head were, however, faster. He imagined that the thing that had killed Mary was in there, returned to claim the rest of his family; he imagined that one of the ghosts he'd put to rest in the past few weeks had followed them there and was set on getting revenge; he imagined all sorts of monsters clawing at his little boys' fragile bodies, until there was nothing left.

John had not imagined the sewer rat, grinning up at him when he burst through the bathroom with his gun ready to kill anything.

Making sure that the boys were safe and that that disgusting animal hadn't bitten them, John rested a calming hand over Dean's hair. The kid was trembling all over, tiny arms clenched around his brother.

It would take a crowbar to pry those two away when Dean was scared like that.

"It's okay, little dude... just take your brother to the room... I'll take care of this," John said, his voice calm as he hushed the older boy away.

There was no point in using a bullet to kill the pesky little thing. Going back to the kitchen, John grabbed the old looking broom that sat there against one of the corners and went back to the bathroom.

In Lawrence, Mary had been the expert in rat killing, back when they had a house, _back when they had a life_. John could remember clearly the fierce look that sweet Mary would get in her eyes whenever she encountered one of those things in their backyard, how she would chased it away with just a swing of the broom.

John gave it two firm smacks in the head and waited for the rodent to stop twitching before grabbing it by the tail and dumping it in the trash.

While he was out, he would have to pick up some rattraps. It wasn't the first place they'd stayed in that had that sort of problem and, even if they were only staying there for a couple of hours, it was good to be prepared.

"Okay, Dean-o. Bathroom is all safe again," he said with a smile. It was a waste of flashing teeth.

Dean, seated on the bed and still holding Sammy tightly against his chest, even though the toddler had already started to try and squirm away, didn't look one bit convinced.

His hands were twisted in the soft cotton of Sammy's overalls and his bottom lip had all but disappeared inside his mouth. Those were not good signs where his oldest was concerned.

John looked at his watch. The meeting with Charlie was in little less than a half hour and he still wanted to have a look around the place before showing his face. The guy was half-trustful when they were serving together and that had been too many years and too many evil things ago.

"Alright then... I'll make you a deal," John said, closing the bathroom door and turning the key. "The evil bathroom with the nasty creatures inside stays locked while I'm gone and if either of you need to go, you can use Sammy's potty chair. Sounds good?"

Dean seemed to pounder the matter for a couple of seconds. He was too old to use the potty chair and Sammy still had his diapers on, because he sometimes forgot to ask before the mess was made. But John would only be gone for two hours, three at most. They'd be fine.

Finally, Dean's blond hair bobbed in a silent nod, sealing the deal. With the bathroom bolted shut, John could see some of the tension leaving the small arms. Sammy ceased the opportunity to make his grand escape, snaking his way out of Dean's hug and promptly falling on his tummy on the bed covers.

"I won't be gone for long, Dean. There's some baby food for Sammy in the fridge and some peanut butter to make sandwiches for you. Think you can handle that?"

Another short nod, solemn green eyes going from his face to the clock on the wall.

Dean, who'd barely turned six, could already tell time even in the clocks with hands instead of digital numbers, even though the numbers over sixty still eluded him somewhat.

"I'll be back at seven, seven thirty... one knock on the window, two knocks on the door," John said, capturing his son's eyes to make sure that he was paying attention. This was important and even though Dean knew better than open the door to some stranger, strangers didn't always come knocking. "If you don't hear it, what do you do?" John asked again, the drill always the same whenever he went out and left them alone.

"Grab Sammy, hide and don't come out until you're home," Dean answered promptly.

John smiled, rubbing the longish hair. "That's my boy... watch out for your brother and keep your nose clean, okay little buddy?"

The smile that answered him back was warm enough to keep John company all the way to the car. It was only when he turned out of the parking lot and watched as the motel, where he'd left his baby boys alone, shrank in the distance in his rear view mirror that the familiar twist in his heart came back with a vengeance.

olo

The two men came in a while after dad left.

When Dean saw the shadows walking by the window, he looked up from the plastic cubes with giant, colorful letters -which Sammy was having fun throwing away so that Dean could fetch- and waited for the knock-signal. He let a smile play across his lips, thinking that dad come home sooner.

It made his tummy hurt every time that dad went away, even though Dean never said anything about it. Either way, the pain went away as soon as dad came back, so there was no point in making him more worried.

And dad was always worried now, Dean could see that. It wasn't his place to make things worse for him. It was his duty as big brother to take care of Sammy, but now that mom was away, Dean figured he should keep an eye on daddy too.

The shadows were not dad. They went straight by the window without a sound and Dean tensed. There were more doors in the corridor they were staying, more people living right beside them. Maybe that was where they were going.

The sound of metal scrapping against the door's lock sent Dean's heart racing inside his chest.

He looked around, panic making things shrink and stretch all around him. He had to hide. They had to hide, but Dean had no idea where.

The room was nothing but one big, open space, with a large bed facing the kitchen counter and a table wedged against the wall. The only other door that Dean could see was to the bathroom, and dad had taken the key to that one with him.

There were no closets in the walls, no cabinets other than the ones in the kitchen, no window they could climb without crossing paths with the men forcing the room's door. Biting his fingernails, Dean pondered his options in the few seconds that he had before those men were inside.

Grabbing Sammy's pacifier from the couch, Dean made a run for the corner cabinet in the kitchen, hoping that there was room enough in there for the two of them.

"Wea we goin, Dee?" Sammy asked as he was pulled and pushed forward.

"It's nap time, Sammy," Dean whispered. "We're gonna sleep in a very special place, but you'll have to be very, very quiet or they won't let us stay there."

Sammy's round eyes grew bigger and the smile that split his baby face was wide enough to show off all of his milk teeth. Sammy loved his naps.

"Okay, Dee... shsssssh," he said, a chubby finger poised across his lips and showering spit all over his big brother.

The bottom cabinet was empty and Dean wasted no time in getting Sammy in before, hurriedly, twisting himself in alongside him. He'd barely closed the cabinet's door when the front door burst open.

Feeling around with his hands, Dean blindly mapped their hiding place. He figured that the cabinet curved a little to the left on the inside, bending into a hidden corner that was probably not visible even if the doors were pushed opened all the way.

Pressing himself against the back wall of the cabinet, arms tight around Sammy's warm body, Dean managed to get them both deeper into the recessed curve. The smell of mold and rotten food was worse in there, but Sammy was quiet, sucking on his pacifier, content to just be cozy and surrounded by the familiar smell of his brother.

Dean could hear the men, two from what he could tell, walking inside their room.

"Its gotta be here somewhere," one of the men said.

"You sure this is the room Ritchie said?" the other asked, kicking something light that crashed against the far wall. "There's baby crap all over the place. Ritchie doesn't even have kids!"

Without warning, the cabinet doors were violently pulled opened and Dean's eyes, already accustomed to the dark in there, contracted painfully. With his heart hammering furiously against his ears, Dean barely heard the men declared the kitchen empty. The sound of the cabinet's door being kicked shut was like an explosion in the closed space and Dean wrapped a hand around Sammy's mouth.

Sammy couldn't cry now. And even though Dean felt like crying himself, he also knew that neither of them could make a sound or the men would be back.

With his ears still ringing from the bang of the small door, Dean only heard the men moving away and started to tear the rest of the room apart because of the rack they were making.

When Sammy was even smaller and cried a lot during the night, they'd been kicked out of a motel because the other occupants had complained about the noise. Now, Dean guessed that it was still too early in the day for people to complain about the noise the bad men were making, because he really wished that someone would come knock on their door and tell them to keep it down.

Dean tried to guess the passage of time, stuck in the dark, but it was hard. Outside, the men had grown quiet, but he could still hear their faint voices occasionally.

He pulled his knees up, squishing them against his chest. Head pressed against the curve of his elbow, Sammy still slept.

There was a growing pressure low in Dean's tummy, one that he knew well. He had to go pee, but to do that would mean going outside the cabinet and get caught by the men outside. He couldn't do that.

For the first time, Dean found himself envious of Sammy's smelly diapers.

Either way, he was sure that dad would be coming home soon. He had to, because Sammy still had to take his bath and Dean was much too old to pee in his pants. He wasn't a baby anymore. He was a big brother. Mommy had said so when she and dad had brought Sammy home from the hospital.

Forcing his mind to focus on the big watch on the sidewall of the room, Dean tried to remember how long it'd been since dad left... how much longer it would be until he came back home. He couldn't though. He'd been distracted by Sammy and their game and in his haste to hide from the two men he'd never looked at the watch again.

Dean could feel the prickle of tears in his eyes. He wasn't afraid of the dark, he was much too old for that, but he didn't like the noises that the dark made. Outside, the men were silent again, but in there, the scratching noises and the small, high pitch screeches that he could hear just on the other side of the wall, were starting to scare him.

He curled his body closer around Sammy's, ignoring the added pressure to his bladder and tried to hear nothing but the small puffs of air coming out of his brother's nose as he lazily sucked on his pacifier.

The first bite felt like an itch and Dean twisted his arm behind his back until he could scratch it. Before he could reach the cotton of his tee shirt, the tips of Dean's fingers brushed against coarse fur and he froze.

Chest suddenly heaving with shallow breaths, Dean tried to stop himself from jumping out of the cabinet and scream right there and then. In the dark, with nothing but sound and smell and touch to go by, it was easy for Dean to picture the same rat that he'd seen in the bathroom earlier, teeth bared and hissing at him, snout nose twitching and sniffing and grazing at his clothes until it could touch skin. In the dark, without his sight to keep him connected to reality, that same rat could grow to gigantic proportions, red eyes glowing in the dark and huge teeth framing colossal jaws, ready to swallow him whole.

There was little room to move, but Dean took a deep breath and, summoning all the courage he could muster, he twisted his arm around again and shoved the rat away with his hand. The feeling of his fingers sinking into the sharp edges of the rat's wet fur brought a surge of bile to Dean's mouth. He shoved the animal away, tasting a small surge of triumph when the feeling of the rodent's body pressed against his was gone.

The victory was short lived. Sensing that there wasn't much that Dean could do to stop him, the rat moved further away from the reach of the swatting hand and charged once more. Sharp teeth caught on the fabric of Dean's shirt and pulled, easily tearing the threadbare cotton.

The feeling of sharp, tiny teeth, sinking into his flesh that followed, was unbearable. Like tiny needles, piercing and pulling and tearing, leaving nothing but acid burns behind. Dean bit down on his hand, tasting blood inside his mouth. He wanted to scream, he wanted to move away, he wanted to jump out of that cabinet and run to his father's arms. He couldn't though.

Instead, Dean kept his small hand stuffed inside his mouth, stopping himself from whimpering. If they got out now, the men in the room would see them and he wouldn't be able to protect Sammy.

He couldn't do that.

When he felt the warm wetness spread against his jeans, Dean felt and equally warm feeling spreading across his cheeks and neck. He knew he'd lost control over his bladder like a baby. When dad came back and got them away from the rat and the bad men, Dean was going to say that it'd been Sammy who'd peed in the kitchen cabinet. It was okay if it'd been Sammy doing it. And maybe, this time, dad would even believe him.

Dean closed his eyes, feeling the tears run down his chubby cheeks. He tried to think about his mother's lap, tried to smell the strawberries of the bubble bath.

He was safe there. Warm. Protected.

But all he could smell was pee and copper.

olo

John parked the Impala, still fuming. Charlie was a prick who couldn't keep track of time even if it bit him in the ass. One hour late... and when he'd finally decided to show up to their meeting, the man was so pissing drunk that John wouldn't trust an empty water gun in his hands.

The sight of the motel room's door opened ajar cleared all thoughts of punching Charlie's face right off John's mind. He raced to the room, his heart skipping beats and his mind telling him he was too late_, too late, too late_.

The place was completely trashed, mattress gutted and white cotton stuffing covering the floor like fake snow.

Sammy's toys were scattered all over the place and the few duffels that he'd carried inside the room, had been dumped empty and tore apart. He couldn't see his boys anywhere.

"Dean? Dean, where are you?" John called out, his own voice a stranger to him, so small it sounded.

Gun cocked and aimed straight ahead of him in a double fisted grip, John bent on one knee to look underneath the bed. Garbage, more toys and broken pieces of furniture. No boys.

"DEAN! Answer me, son... please," John called out louder, not bothering to hide the pleading in his voice or the way it broke near the end. Those boys were all he had left. If something had happened to them, if whoever had trashed the place had taken his babies...

The thud coming from the kitchen was faint but enough to draw John's attention. Dropping to his knees in the middle of the slivers and splinters' filled floor, John closed his eyes, his posture almost like that of a supplicant, praying to a higher power. And then he heard it again.

Crawling on his knees, ignoring the scrapes and sharp things that his jeans were collecting along the way, John opened the corner door of the bottom cabinet.

At first he thought he'd been mistaken, that there was nothing there. But then he saw the tiny blue sneakers, the ones that Sammy had been wearing that day. His baby boy was wide-awake and smiling at him, tiny feet banging against the wooden cabinet, eager to get out.

Draped around him like a safety blanket were Dean's arms. The older boy wasn't moving.

"Shssssh," Sammy, in John's arms, warned. "Dee sleeping... haffta be weawy quiet."

John was shattered between the need to get one son, who looked okay but couldn't take care of himself alone, away to safety and see what was wrong with the other, who wasn't even answering his calls. He forced himself to take Sammy all the way to the bed. After laying him there and quickly checking to see if he was truly unharmed, John raced back to Dean.

With more strength than he'd ever credit himself for, John pulled the cabinet's door from its rusty hinges, finally being able to see the rest of Dean's body.

"Dean... come on son, answer me," John kept on calling, even as he pulled the kid out of the shelf.

His son was cold and wet. The smell of urine was unmistakable and John quickly located the source when he pulled Dean and held him against his chest. The kid's jeans had a dark patch going from his groin to his left knee, which didn't quite added up with the wetness that John could feel against his hand, resting against Dean's back.

"Daddy?"

John's eyes shifted from his wanderings and focused on his oldest son's face. Dean was blinking sleepy eyes at him, a smile tugging the edges of his lips up.

"I'm here kiddo... you okay?"

Dean swallowed, shifting his body to press closer to John's chest. "I'm good, daddy..."

John adjusted his hand to compensate for Dean's movement. The boy was growing heavy for these things, but right now John couldn't bring himself to let go.

John closed his eyes, feeling the sting of tears there, screaming at himself to not let the emotions running inside his chest escape through his eyes. He had no right to them right now.

He'd left his sons alone in a place he knew was no good, and the result had been someone scaring them so badly that Dean, who hadn't peed his bed since Mary's death, soiled himself all over.

This was on him and on him alone and John couldn't allow himself to feel pity for his lousy parenting skills in Mary's absence. He had no right to it. And he didn't deserve it.

"It's okay now, buddy... daddy's here," John whispered, his face pressed against Dean's head, nose filled with the warm smells of his son's soft hair.

John opened his eyes and looked at Dean's sleepy face. There was snot in his nose and salty tear tracks on his cheeks. He brought his hand up, the one he'd kept pressed against the small of Dean's back, and wiped the tears away using his thumb. John's finger left a red track in its wake and he stared in horror at his hand.

It was covered in blood.

olo

John wasn't the blushing type. That emotional reaction had been beaten out of him around about week two of boot camp. Or so he thought.

Seeing a five foot nothing, chubby nurse giving him an accusing glance because he'd just brought in a six year old with rat bites all over his lower back was enough for any six foot two father to feel the heat spreading across his cheeks.

And the silent accusations and judgment in her eyes were only made worse and more effective because she was right.

John pressed Sammy closer to his chest and squeezed Dean's shoulder. The kid was being a champ, barely making a noise as the nurse gave him the necessary shots, disinfected and stitched some of the deeper bites. Seven, she had said out loud as she worked, seven bites.

She needn't have said anything, really. Back in their destroyed room, before rushing to the hospital, and while he hurriedly packed whatever he could salvage of their meager belongings into the car, John had had plenty of time to see the mess that had been done to his son's back. The mess he'd allowed to happen.

Each bite felt like a stab to John's heart.

He had known that there were rats in that place. For God's sake! He'd killed one of the things just before leaving his kids alone. He _should've_ known that where there's one, there's always more. And still he left.

The doctor had already been in, droning about the batch of heavy antibiotics that Dean would have to take and how John would have to watch out for signs of infection for the next month. The short man in glasses, with teeth that reminded John too much of rabbits, had finished his speech with some advice to buy some rattraps. It sounded like sarcasm. And it sounded like he'd called Child Services already.

John was expecting that. Which was why the Impala was already packed and ready. As soon as Dean was declared good to go, they were out of there.

The memory of what had happened, however, would stay with them a lot longer than it would take for Dean's bitten back to heal. In between sobs and whispered apologies for peeing his pants, Dean had told him about the men who'd broken in to their motel room and how Dean had done exactly as John had told him and hidden from them.

Dean never mentioned the rat or what had happened to him while they were stuck inside the cabinet, but John could see the shudders coursing through his kid's skin whenever either the doctor or the nurse mentioned 'rats'.

Maybe it was time to trust Dean with more than a simple 'hide and wait' for when he was gone.

Ideally, John knew that the best solution was to give up hunting and be there for his sons to make sure that something like this never happened again.

But John was pragmatic. Every night when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Mary on the ceiling, bleeding and burning. He knew he couldn't stop until he found the thing, the _evil_ that had done that. And he knew that his sons would never be safe until he did.

He wasn't going to fool himself into believing that he would always be able to be there for his kids. Which meant giving Dean the means to defend himself and his brother if the need ever arise again.

The boy was six. Granted, he was small for his age, but mentally, he was much older than his tiny frame. Maybe it was time to teach the kid how to use a gun and start leaving one with him whenever John was away.

John looked at his son, lying on his side, bony elbow tucked under his head, hair turned darker with sweat and grime. His big eyes wouldn't leave John's face, trapping his father in place with the power of his gaze alone.

John couldn't stand to see the fear in those green eyes. And he knew of only one way to deal with that. Fight back.

olo

Now

"Week after that," Dean said, eyes still lost in the past and barely registering the empty road, "that was when dad took me to the shooting range for the first time. I nailed every one of those cans he put up on that fence."

Sam, still trapped in the horror of hearing about his brother being bitten by rats for who knows how long, missed the proud smile that filled Dean entire face at the mention of his shooting skills at six.

All that Sam wanted right there and then was to know where his father was so that he could punch the man in the face. Of all the things that he'd faulted his father for while they were growing up, negligence of this order hadn't ever even crossed his mind. Sure, they could've had a little more stability in their upbringing and education; and they could certainly have done without the weapon and fight training at such young ages. But this? This one took the cake.

And if it weren't for Dean's obvious lingering fear of rats –which, after hearing about it, Sam could not only understand but also empathize with-, Sam would have never heard about such a traumatic event in his brother's life.

And that, in and of itself, opened another nasty can of worms that Sam didn't even want to contemplate. Because if one of Dean's quirks could be explained by such a nightmarish event, how many of his other oddities could be associated with similar occurrences?

What sort of traumas hid behind Dean's voracious appetite; or his horniness; or the blade under his pillow; or even the fact that he'd only seemed truly at ease inside the car?

Sam's brain was bursting with revolting and frightening ideas and he could already feel the prick of tears behind his eyes. If Dean caught him being all weepy about this, he would never again open up to him.

So, Sam swallowed his heartache as the bitter pill that it was and turned on the radio instead, letting the heavy sounds of someone's electric guitar mask his feelings. From the way Dean's fingers relaxed around the steering wheel, Sam knew it was the right thing to do.

The end


End file.
